Chapter II: Part 2

"But how badly you _do_ spell your words! I _was_ so puzzled about the
'sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses!' But at last I made
out why, of course, you meant 'a sack full of _gloves_, and a basket
full of _kittens_!' Then I understood what you were sending me. And
just then Mrs. Dyer came to tell me a large sack and a basket had
come. There was such a miawing in the house, as if all the cats in
Eastbourne had come to see me! 'Oh, just open them please, Mrs. Dyer,
and count the things in them!'

"So in a few minutes Mrs. Dyer came and said, '500 pairs of gloves in
the sack and 250 kittens in the basket.'

"'Dear me! That makes 1000 gloves! four times as many gloves as
kittens! It's very kind of Maggie, but why did she send so many
gloves? for I haven't got 1000 _hands_, you know, Mrs. Dyer.'

"And Mrs. Dyer said, 'No, indeed, you're 998 hands short of that!'

"However the next day I made out what to do, and I took the basket
with me and walked off to the parish school--the _girl's_ school, you
know--and I said to the mistress, 'How many little girls are there at
school to-day?'

"'Exactly 250, sir.'

"'And have they all been _very_ good all day?'

"'As good as gold, sir.'

"So I waited outside the door with my basket, and as each little girl
came out, I just popped a soft little kitten into her hands! Oh, what
joy there was! The little girls went all dancing home, nursing their
kittens, and the whole air was full of purring! Then, the next
morning, I went to the school, before it opened, to ask the little
girls how the kittens had behaved in the night. And they all arrived
sobbing and crying, and their faces and hands were all covered with
scratches, and they had the kittens wrapped up in their pinafores to
keep them from scratching any more. And they sobbed out, 'The kittens
have been scratching us all night, all the night.'

"So then I said to myself, 'What a nice little girl Maggie is. _Now_ I
see why she sent all those gloves, and why there are four times as
many gloves as kittens!' and I said loud to the little girls, 'Never
mind, my dear children, do your lessons _very_ nicely, and don't cry
any more, and when school is over, you'll find me at the door, and you
shall see what you shall see!'

"So, in the evening, when the little girls came running out, with the
kittens still wrapped up in their pinafores, there was I, at the door,
with a big sack! And, as each little girl came out, I just popped into
her hand two pairs of gloves! And each little girl unrolled her
pinafore and took out an angry little kitten, spitting and snarling,
with its claws sticking out like a hedgehog. But it hadn't time to
scratch, for, in one moment, it found all its four claws popped into
nice soft warm gloves! And then the kittens got quite sweet-tempered
and gentle, and began purring again!

"So the little girls went dancing home again, and the next morning
they came dancing back to school. The scratches were all healed, and
they told me 'The kittens _have_ been good!' And, when any kitten
wants to catch a mouse, it just takes off _one_ of its gloves; and if
it wants to catch _two_ mice, it takes off two gloves; and if it wants
to catch _three_ mice, it takes off _three_ gloves; and if it wants to
catch _four_ mice, it takes off all its gloves. But the moment they've
caught the mice, they pop their gloves on again, because they know we
can't love them without their gloves. For, you see 'gloves' have got
'love' _inside_ them--there's none _outside_!

"So all the little girls said, 'Please thank Maggie, and we send her
250 _loves_, and 1000 _kisses_ in return for her 250 kittens and her
1000 _loves_!!' And I told them in the wrong order! and they said they
hadn't.

"Your loving old Uncle,
"C. L. D.

"Love and kisses to Nellie and Emsie."

This letter takes up eight pages of close writing, and I should very much doubt if any child ever had a more charming one from anybody. The whimsical fancy in it, the absolute comprehension of a child's intellect, the quickness with which the writer employs the slightest incident or thing that would be likely to please a little girl, is simply wonderful. I shall never forget how the letter charmed and delighted my sister Maggie and myself. We called it "The glove and kitten letter," and as I look at the tremulous handwriting which is lying by my side, it all comes back to me very vividly--like the sound of forgotten fingers on the latch to some lonely fireside watcher, when the wind is wailing round the house with a wilder inner note than it has in the daytime.

At Eastbourne I was happier even with Lewis Carroll than I was at Oxford. We seemed more free, and there was the air of holiday over it all. Every day of my stay at the house in Lushington Road was a perfect dream of delight.

There was one regular and fixed routine which hardly ever varied, and which I came to know by heart; and I will write an account of it here, and ask any little girl who reads it, if she ever had such a splendid time in her life.

To begin with, we used to get up very early indeed. Our bedroom doors faced each other at the top of the staircase. When I came out of mine I always knew if I might go into his room or not by his signal. If, when I came into the passage, I found that a newspaper had been put under the door, then I knew I might go in at once; but if there was no newspaper, then I had to wait till it appeared. I used to sit down on the top stair as quiet as a mouse, watching for the paper to come under the door, when I would rush in almost before uncle had time to get out of the way. This was always the first pleasure and excitement of the day. Then we used to downstairs to breakfast, after which we always read a chapter out of the Bible. So that I should remember it, I always had to tell it to him afterwards as a story of my own.

"Now then, Isa dearest," he would say, "tell me a story, and mind you begin with 'once upon a time.' A story which does not begin with 'once upon a time' can't possibly be a good story. It's _most_ important."

When I had told my story it was time to go out.

I was learning swimming at the Devonshire Park baths, and we always had a bargain together. He would never allow me to go to the swimming-bath--which I revelled in--until I had promised him faithfully that I would go afterwards to the dentist's.

He had great ideas upon the importance of a regular and almost daily visit to the dentist. He himself went to a dentist as he would have gone to a hairdresser's, and he insisted that all the little girls he knew should go too. The precaution sounds strange, and one might be inclined to think that Lewis Carroll carried it to an unnecessary length; but I can only bear personal witness to the fact that I have firm strong teeth, and have never had a toothache in my life. I believe I owe this entirely to those daily visits to the Eastbourne dentist.

Soon after this it was time for lunch, and we both went back hand-in-hand to the rooms in Lushington Road. Lewis Carroll never had a proper lunch, a fact which always used to puzzle me tremendously.

I could not understand how a big grown-up man could live on a glass of sherry and a biscuit at dinner time. It seemed such a pity when there was lots of mutton and rice-pudding that he should not have any. I always used to ask him, "Aren't you hungry, uncle, even _to-day_?"

After lunch I used to have a lesson in backgammon, a game of which he was passionately fond, and of which he could never have enough. Then came what to me was the great trial of the day. I am afraid I was a very lazy little girl in those days, and I know I hated walking far. The trial was, that we should walk to the top of Beachy Head every afternoon. I used to like it very much when I got there, but the walk was irksome. Lewis Carroll believed very much in a great amount of exercise, and said one should always go to bed physically wearied with the exercise of the day. Accordingly there was no way out of it, and every afternoon I had to walk to the top of Beachy Head. He was very good and kind. He would invent all sorts of new games to beguile the tedium of the way. One very curious and strange trait in his character was shown on these walks. I used to be very fond of flowers and of animals also. A pretty dog or a hedge of honeysuckle were always pleasant events upon a walk to me. And yet he himself cared for neither flowers nor animals. Tender and kind as he was, simple and unassuming in all his tastes, yet he did not like flowers! I confess that even now I find it hard to understand. He knew children so thoroughly and well--perhaps better than any one else--that it is all the stranger that he did not care for things that generally attract them so much. However, be that as it may, the fact remained. When I was in raptures over a poppy or a dogrose, he would try hard to be as interested as I was, but even to my childish eyes it was an obvious effort, and he would always rather invent some new game for us to play at. Once, and once only, I remember him to have taken an interest in a flower, and that was because of the folk-lore that was attached to it, and not because of the beauty of the flower itself.

We used to walk into the country that stretched, in beautiful natural avenues of trees, inland from Eastbourne. One day while we sat under a great tree, and the hum of the myriad insect life rivalled the murmur of the far-away waves, he took a foxglove from the heap that lay in my lap and told me the story of how they came by their name; how, in the old days, when, all over England, there were great forests, like the forest of Arden that Shakespeare loved, the pixies, the "little folks," used to wander at night in the glades, like Titania, and Oberon, and Puck, and because they took great pride in their dainty hands they made themselves gloves out of the flowers. So the particular flower that the "little folks" used came to be called "folks' gloves." Then, because the country people were rough and clumsy in their talk, the name was shortened into "Fox-gloves," the name that every one uses now.

When I got very tired we used to sit down upon the grass, and he used to show me the most wonderful things made out of his handkerchief. Every one when a child has, I suppose, seen the trick in which a handkerchief is rolled up to look like a mouse, and then made to jump about by a movement of the hand. He did this better than any one I ever saw, and the trick was a never-failing joy. By a sort of consent between us the handkerchief trick was kept especially for the walk to Beachy Head, when, about half-way, I was a little tired and wanted to rest. When we actually got to the Head there was tea waiting in the coastguard's cottage. He always said I ate far too much, and he would never allow me more than one rock cake and a cup of tea. This was an invariable rule, and much as I wished for it, I was never allowed to have more than one rock cake.

It was in the coastguard's house or on the grass outside that I heard most of his stories. Sometimes he would make excursions into the realms of pure romance, where there were scaly dragons and strange beasts that sat up and talked. In all these stories there was always an adventure in a forest, and the great scene of each tale always took place in a wood. The consummation of a story was always heralded by the phrase, "The children now came to a deep dark wood." When I heard that sentence, which was always spoken very slowly and with a solemn dropping of the voice, I always knew that the really exciting part was coming. I used to nestle a little nearer to him, and he used to hold me a little closer as he told of the final adventure.

He did not always tell me fairy tales, though I think I liked the fairy tale much the best. Sometimes he gave me accounts of adventures which had happened to him. There was one particularly thrilling story of how he was lost on Beachy Head in a sea fog, and had to find his way home by means of boulders. This was the more interesting because we were on the actual scene of the disaster, and to be there stimulated the imagination.

The summer afternoons on the great headland were very sweet and peaceful. I have never met a man so sensible to the influences of Nature as Lewis Carroll. When the sunset was very beautiful he was often affected by the sight. The widespread wrinkled sea below, in the mellow melancholy light of the afternoon, seemed to fit in with his temperament. I have still a mental picture that I can recall of him on the cliff. Just as the sun was setting, and a cool breeze whispered round us, he would take off his hat and let the wind play with his hair, and he would look out to sea. Once I saw tears in his eyes, and when we turned to go he gripped my hand much tighter than usual.

We generally got back to dinner about seven or earlier. He would never let me change my frock for the meal, even if we were going to a concert or theatre afterwards. He had a curious theory that a child should not change her clothes twice in one day. He himself made no alteration in his dress at dinner time, nor would he permit me to do so. Yet he was not by any means an untidy or slovenly man. He had many little fads in dress, but his great horror and abomination was high-heeled shoes with pointed toes. No words were strong enough, he thought, to describe such monstrous things.

Lewis Carroll was a deeply religious man, and on Sundays at Eastbourne we always went twice to church. Yet he held that no child should be forced into church-going against its will. Such a state of mind in a child, he said, needed most careful treatment, and the very worst thing to do was to make attendance at the services compulsory. Another habit of his, which must, I feel sure, sound rather dreadful to many, was that, should the sermon prove beyond my comprehension, he would give me a little book to read; it was better far, he maintained, to read, than to stare idly about the church. When the rest of the congregation rose at the entrance of the choir he kept his seat. He argued that rising to one's feet at such a time tended to make the choir-boys conceited. I think he was quite right.

He kept no special books for Sunday reading, for he was most emphatically of opinion that anything tending to make Sunday a day dreaded by a child should be studiously avoided. He did not like me to sew on Sunday unless it was absolutely necessary.

One would have hardly expected that a man of so reserved a nature as Lewis Carroll would have taken much interest in the stage. Yet he was devoted to the theatre, and one of the commonest of the treats that he gave his little girl friends was to organise a party for the play. As a critic of acting he was naive and outspoken, and never hesitated to find fault if he thought it justifiable. The following letter that he wrote to me criticising my acting in "Richard III." when I was playing with Richard Mansfield, is one of the most interesting that I ever received from him. Although it was written for a child to understand and profit by, and moreover written in the simplest possible way, it yet even now strikes me as a trenchant and valuable piece of criticism.

"CH. CH. OXFORD,
"_Ap. 4, '89_.

"MY LORD DUKE,--The photographs, which Your Grace did me the honour of
sending arrived safely; and I can assure your Royal Highness that I am
very glad to have them, and like them _very_ much, particularly the
large head of your late Royal Uncle's little little son. I do not
wonder that your excellent Uncle Richard should say 'off with his
head!' as a hint to the photographer to print it off. Would your
Highness like me to go on calling you the Duke of York, or shall I say
'my own own darling Isa?' Which do you like best?

"Now I'm going to find fault with my pet about her acting. What's the
good of an old Uncle like me except to find fault?

"You do the meeting with the Prince of Wales _very_ nicely and
lovingly; and, in teasing your Uncle for his dagger and his sword, you
are very sweet and playful and--'but _that's_ not finding fault!' Isa
says to herself. Isn't it? Well, I'll try again. Didn't I hear you say
'In weightier things you'll say a _beggar_ nay,' leaning on the word
'beggar'? If so, it was a mistake. _My_ rule for knowing which word to
lean on is the word that tells you something _new_, something that is
_different_ from what you expected.

"Take the sentence 'first I bought a bag of apples, then I bought a
bag of pears,' you wouldn't say 'then I bought a _bag_ of pears.' The
'bag' is nothing new, because it was a bag in the first part of the
sentence. But the _pears_ are new, and different from the _apples_.
So you would say, 'then I bought a bag of _pears_.'

"Do you understand that, my pet?"

"Now what you say to Richard amounts to this, 'With light gifts you'll
say to a beggar "yes": with heavy gifts you'll say to a beggar "nay."'
The words 'you'll say to a beggar' are the same both times; so you
mustn't lean on any of _those_ words. But 'light' is different from
'heavy,' and 'yes' is different from 'nay.' So the way to say the
sentence would be 'with _light_ gifts you'll say to a beggar "_yes_":
with _heavy_ gifts you'll say to a beggar "_nay_".' And the way to say
the lines in the play is--

'O, then I see you will _part_ but with _light_ gifts;
In _weightier_ things you'll say a beggar _nay_.'

"One more sentence.

"When Richard says, 'What, would you have my _weapon_, little Lord?'
and you reply 'I _would_, that I might thank you as you call me,'
didn't I hear you pronounce 'thank' as if it were spelt with an 'e'? I
know it's very common (I often do it myself) to say 'thenk you!' as an
exclamation by itself. I suppose it's an odd way of pronouncing the
word. But I'm sure it's wrong to pronounce it so when it comes into a
_sentence_. It will sound _much_ nicer if you'll pronounce it so as to
rhyme with 'bank.'

"One more thing. ('What an impertinent old uncle! Always finding
fault!') You're not as _natural_, when acting the Duke, as you were
when you acted Alice. You seemed to me not to forgot _yourself_
enough. It was not so much a real _prince_ talking to his elder
brother and his uncle; it was _Isa Bowman_ talking to people she
didn't _much_ care about, for an audience to listen to--I don't mean
it was that all _through_, but _sometimes_ you were _artificial_. Now
don't be jealous of Miss Hatton, when I say she was _sweetly_ natural.
She looked and spoke like a _real_ Prince of Wales. And she didn't
seem to know that there was any audience. If you are ever to be a
_good_ actress (as I hope you will), you must learn to _forget_ 'Isa'
altogether, and _be_ the character you are playing. Try to think 'This
is _really_ the Prince of Wales. I'm his little brother, and I'm
_very_ glad to meet him, and I love him _very_ much,' and 'this is
_really_ my uncle: he's very kind, and lets me say saucy things to
him,' and _do_ forget that there's anybody else listening!

"My sweet pet, I _hope_ you won't be offended with me for saying what
I fancy might make your acting better!

"Your loving old Uncle,
"CHARLES.

X for NELLIE.
X for MAGGIE.
X for EMSIE.
X for ISA."

He was a fairly constant patron of all the London theatres, save the Gaiety and the Adelphi, which he did not like, and numbered a good many theatrical folk among his acquaintances. Miss Ellen Terry was one of his greatest friends. Once I remember we made an expedition from Eastbourne to Margate to visit Miss Sarah Thorne's theatre, and especially for the purpose of seeing Miss Violet Vanbrugh's Ophelia. He was a great admirer of both Miss Violet and Miss Irene Vanbrugh as actresses. Of Miss Thorne's school of acting, too, he had the highest opinion, and it was his often expressed wish that all intending players could have so excellent a course of tuition. Among the male members of the theatrical profession he had no especial favourites, excepting Mr. Toole and Mr. Richard Mansfield.

He never went to a music-hall, but considered that, properly managed, they might be beneficial to the public. It was only when the refrain of some particularly vulgar music-hall song broke upon his ears in the streets that he permitted himself to speak harshly about variety theatres.

Comic opera, when it was wholesome, he liked, and was a frequent visitor to the Savoy theatre. The good old style of Pantomime, too, was a great delight to him, and he would often speak affectionately of the pantomimes at Brighton during the regime of Mr. and Mrs. Nye Chart. But of the up-to-date pantomime he had a horror, and nothing would induce him to visit one. "When pantomimes are written for children once more," he said, "I will go. Not till then."

Once when a friend told him that she was about to take her little girls to the pantomime, he did not rest till he had dissuaded her.

To conclude what I have said about Lewis Carroll's affection for the dramatic art, I will give a kind of examination paper, written for a child who had been learning a recitation called "The Demon of the Pit." Though his stuttering prevented him from being himself anything of a reciter, he loved correct elocution, and would take any pains to make a child perfect in a piece.

First of all there is an explanatory paragraph.

"As you don't ask any questions about 'The Demon of the Pit,' I suppose you understand it all. So please answer these questions just as you would do if a younger child (say Mollie) asked them."

_Mollie._ Please, Ethel, will you explain this poem to me. There are
some very hard words in it.

_Ethel._ What are they, dear?

_Mollie._ Well, in the first line, "If you chance to make a sally."
What does "sally" mean?

_Ethel._ Dear Mollie, I believe sally means to take a chance work.[2]

_Mollie._ Then, near the end of the first verse--"Whereupon she'll
call her cronies"--what does "whereupon" mean? And what are cronies?

_Ethel._ I think whereupon means at the same time, and cronies means
her favourite playfellows.

_Mollie._ "And invest in proud polonies." What's to "invest?"

_Ethel._ To invest means to spend money in anything you fancy.

_Mollie._ And what's "A woman of the day?"

_Ethel._ A woman of the day means a wonder of the time with the
general public.

_Mollie._ "Pyrotechnic blaze of wit." What's pyrotechnic?

_Ethel._ Mollie, I think you will find that pyrotechnic means quick,
with flashes of lightning.

_Mollie._ Then the 8 lines that begin "The astounding infant
wonder"--please explain "role" and "mise" and "tout ensemble" and
"grit."

_Ethel._ Well, Mollie, "role" means so many different things, but in
"The Demon of the Pit" I should think it meant the leading part of the
piece, and "mise" means something extra good introduced, and "tout"
means to seek for applause, but "ensemble" means the whole of the
parts taken together, and grit means something good.

_Mollie._ "And the Goblins prostrate tumble." What's "prostrate"?

_Ethel._ I believe prostrate means to be cast down and unhappy.

_Mollie._ "And his accents shake a bit." What are "accents"?

_Ethel._ To accent is to lay stress upon a word.

_Mollie._ "Waits resignedly behind." What's "resignedly"?

_Ethel._ Resignedly means giving up, yielding.

_Mollie._ "They have tripe as light to dream on." What does "as" mean
here? and what does "to dream on" mean?

_Ethel._ Mollie, dear, your last question is very funny. In the first
place, I have always been told that hot suppers are not good for any
one, and I should think that tripe would _not be light_ to dream on
but VERY heavy.

_Mollie._ Thank you, Ethel.

I have now nearly finished my little memoir of Lewis Carroll; that is to say, I have written down all that I can remember of my personal knowledge of him. But I think it is from the letters and the diaries published in this book that my readers must chiefly gain an insight into the character of the greatest friend to children who ever lived. Not only did he study children's ways for his own pleasure, but he studied them in order that he might please them. For instance, here is a letter that he wrote to my little sister Nelly eight years ago, which begins on the last page and is written entirely backwards--a kind of variant on his famous "Looking-Glass" writing. You have to begin at the last word and read backwards before you can understand it. The only ordinary thing about it is the date. It begins--I mean _begins_ if one was to read it in the ordinary way--with the characteristic monogram, C. L. D.

"_Nov. 1, 1891._

"C. L. D., Uncle loving your! Instead grandson his to it give to had
you that so, years 80 or 70 for it forgot you that was it pity a what
and: him of fond so were you wonder don't I and, gentleman old nice
very a was he. For it made you that _him_ been have _must_ it see you
so: _grandfather_ my was, _then_ alive was that, 'Dodgson Uncle' only
the. Born was _I_ before long was that, see you, then But. 'Dodgson
Uncle for pretty thing some make I'll now,' it began you when,
yourself to said you that, me telling her without, knew I course of
and: ago years many great a it made had you said she. Me told Isa what
from was it? For meant was it who out made I how know you do! Lasted
has it well how and. Grandfather my for made had you Antimacassar
pretty that me give to you of nice so was it, Nelly dear my."

Miss Hatch has also sent me an original letter that Lewis Carroll wrote to her in 1873, about a large wax doll that he had given her. It is interesting to notice that this letter, written long before any of the others that he wrote to me, is identically the same in form and expression. It is a striking proof how fresh and unimpaired the writer's sympathies must have been. Year after year he retained the same sweet, kindly temperament, and, if anything, his love for children seemed to increase as he grew older.

"MY DEAR BIRDIE,--I met her just outside Tom Gate, walking very
stiffly, and I think she was trying to find her way to my rooms. So I
said, 'Why have you come here without Birdie?' So she said, 'Birdie's
gone! and Emily's gone! and Mabel isn't kind to me!' And two little
waxy tears came running down her cheeks.

"Why, how stupid of me! I've never told you who it was all the time!
It was your new doll. I was very glad to see her, and I took her to my
room, and gave her some vesta matches to eat, and a cup of nice melted
wax to drink, for the poor little thing was _very_ hungry and thirsty
after her long walk. So I said, 'Come and sit down by the fire, and
let's have a comfortable chat?' 'Oh no! _no_!' she said, 'I'd _much_
rather not. You know I do melt so _very_ easily!' And she made me take
her quite to the other side of the room, where it was _very_ cold: and
then she sat on my knee, and fanned herself with a pen-wiper, because
she said she was afraid the end of her nose was beginning to melt.

"'You've no _idea_ how careful we have to be,' we dolls, she said.
'Why, there was a sister of mine--would you believe it?--she went up
to the fire to warm her hands, and one of her hands dropped _right_
off! There now!' 'Of course it dropped _right_ off,' I said, 'because
it was the _right_ hand.' 'And how do you know it was the _right_
hand, Mister Carroll?' the doll said. So I said, 'I think it must have
been the _right_ hand because the other hand was _left_.'

"The doll said, 'I shan't laugh. It's a very bad joke. Why, even a
common wooden doll could make a better joke than that. And besides,
they've made my mouth so stiff and hard, that I _can't_ laugh if I try
ever so much?' 'Don't be cross about it,' I said, 'but tell me this:
I'm going to give Birdie and the other children one photograph each,
which ever they choose; which do you think Birdie will choose?' 'I
don't know,' said the doll; 'you'd better ask her!' So I took her home
in a hansom cab. Which would you like, do you think? Arthur as Cupid?
or Arthur and Wilfred together? or you and Ethel as beggar children?
or Ethel standing on a box? or, one of yourself?--Your affectionate
friend,

"LEWIS CARROLL."

Among the bundle of letters and MS. before me, I find written on a half sheet of note-paper the following Ollendorfian dialogue. It is interesting because, slight and trivial as it is, it in some strange way bears the imprint of Lewis Carroll's style. The thing is written in the familiar violet ink, and neatly dated in the corner 29/9/90:--

"Let's go and look at the house I want to buy. Now do be quick! You move so slow! What a time you take with your boots!"

"Don't make such a row about it: it's not two o'clock yet. How do you like _this_ house?"

"I don't like it. It's too far down the hill. Let's go higher. I heard a nice account of one at the top, built on an improved plan."

"What does the rent amount to?"

"Oh, the rent's all right: it's only nine pounds a year."

* * * * *

Over all matters connected with letter writing, Lewis Carroll was accustomed to take great pains. All letters that he received that were of any interest or importance whatever he kept, putting them away in old biscuit tins, numbers of which he kept for the purpose.

In 1888 he published a little book which he called "Eight or Nine Wise Words about Letter Writing," and as this little book of mine is so full of letters, I think I can do no better than make a few extracts:--

"_Write Legibly._--The average temper of the human race would be
perceptibly sweeter if every one obeyed this rule! A great deal of the
bad writing in the world comes simply from writing too quickly. Of
course you reply, 'I do it to save time.' A very good object, no
doubt; but what right have you to do it at your friend's expense?
Isn't _his_ time as valuable as yours? Years ago I used to receive
letters from a friend--and very interesting letters too--written in
one of the most atrocious hands ever invented. It generally took me
about a _week_ to read one of his letters! I used to carry it about in
my pocket, and take it out at leisure times, to puzzle over the
riddles which composed it--holding it in different positions, and at
different distances, till at last the meaning of some hopeless scrawl
would flash upon me, when I at once wrote down the English under it;
and, when several had thus been guessed, the context would help one
with the others, till at last the whole series of hieroglyphics was
deciphered. If _all_ one's friends wrote like that, life would be
entirely spent in reading their letters."

In writing the last wise word, the author no doubt had some of his girl correspondents in his mind's eye, for he says--

"_My Ninth Rule._--When you get to the end of a note sheet, and find
you have more to say, take another piece of paper--a whole sheet or a
scrap, as the case may demand; but, whatever you do, _don't cross_!
Remember the old proverb, 'Cross writing makes cross reading.' 'The
_old_ proverb,' you say inquiringly; 'how old?' Well, not so _very_
ancient, I must confess. In fact I'm afraid I invented it while
writing this paragraph. Still you know 'old' is a comparative term. I
think you would be _quite_ justified in addressing a chicken just out
of the shell as 'Old Boy!' _when compared_ with another chicken that
was only half out!"

I have another diary to give to my readers, a diary that Lewis Carroll wrote for my sister Maggie when, a tiny child, she came to Oxford to play the child part, Mignon, in "Booties' Baby." He was delighted with the pretty play, for the interest that the soldiers took in the little lost girl, and how a mere interest ripened into love, till the little Mignon was queen of the barracks, went straight to his heart. I give the diary in full:--

"MAGGIE'S VISIT TO OXFORD

JUNE 9 TO 13, 1899

When Maggie once to Oxford came
On tour as 'Booties' Baby,'
She said 'I'll see this place of fame,
However dull the day be!'

So with her friend she visited
The sights that it was rich in:
And first of all she poked her head
Inside the Christ Church Kitchen.

The cooks around that little child
Stood waiting in a ring:
And, every time that Maggie smiled,
Those cooks began to sing--
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!

'Roast, boil, and bake,
For Maggie's sake!
Bring cutlets fine,
For _her_ to dine:
Meringues so sweet,
For _her_ to eat--
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!'

Then hand-in-hand, in pleasant talk,
They wandered, and admired
The Hall, Cathedral, and Broad Walk,
Till Maggie's feet were tired:

One friend they called upon--her name
Was Mrs. Hassall--then
Into a College Room they came,
Some savage Monster's Den!

'And, when that Monster dined, I guess
He tore her limb from limb?'
Well, no: in fact, I must confess
That _Maggie dined with him_!

To Worcester Garden next they strolled--
Admired its quiet lake:
Then to St. John's, a College old,
Their devious way they take.

In idle mood they sauntered round
Its lawns so green and flat:
And in that Garden Maggie found
A lovely Pussey-Cat!

A quarter of an hour they spent
In wandering to and fro:
And everywhere that Maggie went,
That Cat was sure to go--
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!

'Miaow! Miaow!
Come, make your bow!
Take off your hats,
Ye Pussy Cats!
And purr, and purr,
To welcome _her_--
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!'

So back to Christ Church--not too late
For them to go and see
A Christ Church Undergraduate,
Who gave them cakes and tea.

Next day she entered, with her guide,
The Garden called 'Botanic':
And there a fierce Wild-Boar she spied,
Enough to cause a panic!

But Maggie didn't mind, not she!
She would have faced _alone_,
That fierce Wild-Boar, because, you see,
The thing was made of stone!

On Magdalen walls they saw a face
That filled her with delight,
A giant-face, that made grimace
And grinned with all its might!

A little friend, industrious,
Pulled upwards, all the while,
The corner of its mouth, and thus
He helped that face to smile!

'How nice,' thought Maggie, 'it would be
If _I_ could have a friend
To do that very thing for _me_,
And make my mouth turn up with glee,
By pulling at one end!'

In Magdalen Park the deer are wild
With joy that Maggie brings
Some bread a friend had given the child,
To feed the pretty things.

They flock round Maggie without fear:
They breakfast and they lunch,
They dine, they sup, those happy deer--
Still, as they munch and munch,
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!

'Yes, Deer are we,
And dear is she!
We love this child
So sweet and mild:
We all rejoice
At Maggie's voice:
We all are fed
With Maggie's bread--
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!'

To Pembroke College next they go,
Where little Maggie meets
The Master's wife and daughter: so
Once more into the streets.

They met a Bishop on their way--
A Bishop large as life--
With loving smile that seemed to say
'Will Maggie be my wife?'

Maggie thought _not_, because, you see,
She was so _very_ young,
And he was old as old could be--
So Maggie held her tongue.

'My Lord, she's _Bootles' Baby_: we
Are going up and down,'
Her friend explained, 'that she may see
The sights of Oxford-town.'

'Now say what kind of place it is!'
The Bishop gaily cried.
'The best place in the Provinces!'
That little maid replied.

Next to New College, where they saw
Two players hurl about
A hoop, but by what rule or law
They could not quite make out.

'Ringo' the Game is called, although
'Les Graces' was once its name,
When _it_ was--as its name will show--
A much more _graceful_ Game.

The Misses Symonds next they sought,
Who begged the child to take
A book they long ago had bought--
A gift for friendship's sake!

Away, next morning, Maggie went
From Oxford-town: but yet
The happy hours she there had spent
She could not soon forget.

The train is gone: it rumbles on:
The engine-whistle screams:
But Maggie's deep in rosy sleep--
And softly, in her dreams,
Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom!

'Oxford, good-bye!'
She seems to sigh,
'You dear old City,
With Gardens pretty,
And lawns, and flowers,
And College-towers,
And Tom's great Bell--
Farewell, farewell!
For Maggie may be
Booties' Baby!'

--LEWIS CARROLL."

The tale has been often told of how "Alice in Wonderland" came to be written, but it is a tale so well worth the telling again, that, very shortly, I will give it to you here.

Years ago in the great quadrangle of Christ Church, opposite to Mr. Dodgson, lived the little daughters of Dean Liddell, the great Greek scholar and Dean of Christ Church. The little girls were great friends of Mr. Dodgson's, and they used often to come to him and to plead with him for a fairy tale. There was never such a teller of tales, they thought! One can imagine the whole delightful scene with little trouble. That big cool room on some summer's afternoon, when the air was heavy with flower scents, and the sounds that came floating in through the open window were all mellowed by the distance. One can see him, that good and kindly gentleman, his mobile face all aglow with interest and love, telling the immortal story.

Round him on his knee sat the little sisters, their eyes wide open and their lips parted in breathless anticipation. When Alice (how the little Alice Liddell who was listening must have loved the tale!) rubbed the mushroom and became so big that she quite filled the little fairy house, one can almost hear the rapturous exclamations of the little ones as they heard of it.

The story, often continued on many summer afternoons, sometimes in the cool Christ Church rooms, sometimes in a slow gliding boat in a still river between banks of rushes and strange bronze and yellow waterflowers, or sometimes in a great hay-field, with the insects whispering in the grass all round, grew in its conception and idea.

Other folk, older folk, came to hear of it from the little ones, and Mr. Dodgson was begged to write it down. Accordingly the first MS. was prepared with great care and illustrated by the author. Then, in 1865, memorable year for English children, "Alice" appeared in its present form, with Sir John Tenniel's drawings.

In 1872 "Alice Through the Looking-Glass," appeared, and was received as warmly as its predecessor. That fact, I think, proves most conclusively that Lewis Carroll's success was a success of absolute merit, and due to no mere mood or fashion of the public taste. I can conceive nothing more difficult for a man who has had a great success with one book than to write a sequel which should worthily succeed it. In the present case that is exactly what Lewis Carroll did. "Through the Looking-Glass" is every whit as popular and charming as the older book. Indeed one depends very much upon the other, and in every child's book-shelves one sees the two masterpieces side by side.

B.H.

from C. L. D.

A CHARADE.

[NB FIVE POUNDS will be given to any one who succeeds in writing an original poetical Charade, introducing the line "My First is followed by a bird," but making no use of the answer to this Charade.

Ap 8 1878

(signed)

Lewis Carroll]

My First is a singular at best
More plural is my Second.
My Third is far the pluralest--
So plural-plural, I protest,
It scarcely can be reckoned!

My First is followed by a bird
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, too often, hopes absurd,
And plausible deceivers.

My First to get at wisdom tries--
A failure melancholy!
My Second men revere as wise:
My Third from heights of wisdom fall
To depths of frantic folly!

My First is ageing day by day,
My Second's age is ended.
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
Through centuries extended!

My Whole? I need a Poet's pen
To paint her myriad phases
The monarch, and the slave, of men--
A mountain-summit, and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes!

A flashing light--a fleeting shade--
Beginning, end, and middle
Of all that human art hath made,
Or wit devised "Go, seek her aid,
If you would guess my riddle."]

While on the subject of the two "Alices," I will put in a letter that he wrote mentioning his books. He was so modest about them, that it was extremely difficult to get him to say, or write, anything at all about them. I believe it was a far greater pleasure for him to know that he had pleased some child with "Alice" or "The Hunting of the Snark," than it was to be hailed by the press and public as the first living writer for children.

"EASTBOURNE.

"MY OWN DARLING ISA,--The full value of a copy of the French 'Alice'
is L45: but, as you want the 'cheapest' kind, and as you are a great
friend of mine, and as I am of a very noble, generous disposition, I
have made up my mind to a _great_ sacrifice, and have taken L3, 10s.
0d. off the price. So that you do not owe me more than L41, 10s. 0d.,
and this you can pay me, in gold or bank-notes _as soon as you ever
like_. Oh dear! I wonder why I write such nonsense! Can you explain to
me, my pet, how it happens that when I take up my pen to write a
letter to _you_ it won't write sense? Do you think the rule is that
when the pen finds it has to write to a nonsensical good-for-nothing
child, it sets to work to write a nonsensical good-for-nothing letter?
Well, now I'll tell you the real truth. As Miss Kitty Wilson is a
dear friend of yours, of course she's a _sort_ of a friend of mine. So
I thought (in my vanity) 'perhaps she would like to have a copy' from
the author, 'with her name written in it.' So I've sent her one--but I
hope she'll understand that I do it because she's _your_ friend, for,
you see, I had never _heard_ of her before: so I wouldn't have any
other reason.

"I'm still exactly 'on the balance' (like those scales of mine, when
Nellie says 'it won't weigh!') as to whether it would be wise to have
my pet Isa down here! how _am_ I to make it weigh, I wonder? Can you
advise any way to do it? I'm getting on grandly with 'Sylvie and Bruno
Concluded.' I'm afraid you'll expect me to give you a copy of it?
Well, I'll see if I have one to spare. It won't be out before
Easter-tide, I'm afraid.

"I wonder what sort of condition the book is in that I lent you to
take to America? ('Laneton Parsonage,' I mean). Very shabby, I expect.
I find lent books _never_ come back in good condition. However, I've
got a second copy of this book, so you may keep it as your own. Love
and kisses to any one you know who is lovely and kissable.--

"Always your loving Uncle,
"C. L. D."

In 1876 appeared the long poem called the "Hunting of the Snark; or, An Agony in Eight Fits," and besides those verses we have from Lewis Carroll's pen two books called "Phantasmagoria" and "Rhyme and Reason."

The last work of his that attained any great celebrity was "Sylvie and Bruno," a curious romance, half fairy tale, half mathematical treatise. Mr. Dodgson was employed of late years on his "Symbolic Logic," only one part of which has been published, and he seems to have been influenced by his studies. One can easily trace the trail of the logician in Sylvie and Bruno, and perhaps this resulted in a certain lack of "form." However, some of the nonsense verses in this book were up to the highest level of the author's achievement. Even as I write the verse comes to me--

"He thought he saw a kangaroo
Turning a coffee-mill;
He looked again, and found it was
A vegetable pill!
'Were I to swallow you,' he said,
'I should be very ill'!"

The fascinating jingle stays in the memory when graver verse eludes all effort at recollection. I personally could repeat "The Walrus and the Carpenter" from beginning to end without hesitation, but I should find a difficulty in writing ten lines of "Hamlet" correctly.

At the beginning of "Sylvie and Bruno" is a little poem in three verses which forms an acrostic on my name. I quote it--

"Is all our life, then, but a dream,
Seen faintly in the golden gleam
Athwart Time's dark resistless stream?

Bowed to the earth with bitter woe,
Or laughing at some raree-show,
We flutter idly to and fro.

Man's little day in haste we spend,
And, from its merry noontide, send
No glance to meet the silent end."

You see that if you take the first letter of each line, or if you take the first three letters of the first line of each verse, you get the name Isa Bowman.

Prologue

[Enter Beatrice, leading Wilfred She leaves him to centre (front) & after going round on tip-toe to make sure they are not overheard returns & takes his arm.]

B. "Wiffie! I'm sure that something is the matter!
All day there's been--oh such a fuss and clatter!
Mamma's been trying on a funny dress--
I never =saw= the house in such a mess!
(puts her arm round his neck)
Is there a secret, Wiffie?"

W. (Shaking her off) "yes, of course!"

B. "And you won't tell it? (whispers) Then you're very cross!
(turns away from, & clasps her hands, looking up ecstatically)
I'm sure of =this=! It's something =quite= uncommon!"

W. (stretching up his arms with a mock-heroic air)
"Oh, Curiosity! Thy name is Woman!
(puts his arm round her coaxingly)
Well, Birdie, then I'll tell. (mysteriously) What should you say
If they were going to act--a little play?"

B. (jumping and clapping her hands)
"I'd say '=How nice=!'"

W. (pointing to audience)
"But will it please the rest?"

B. "Oh =yes=! Because, you know, they'll do their best!
[turns to audience]
"You'll praise them, won't you, when you've seen the play?
Just say '=How nice=!' before you go away!"
[they run away hand in hand].

Feb 14. 1873.]

Although he never wrote anything in the dramatic line, he once wrote a prologue for some private theatricals, which was to be spoken by Miss Hatch and her brother. This prologue is reproduced in facsimile on the preceding page.

Miss Hatch has also sent me a charade (reproduced on pp. 108-10) which he wrote for her, and illustrated with some of his funny drawings.

I have one more letter, the last, which, as it mentions the book "Sylvie and Bruno," I will give now.

"CHRIST CHURCH,
"_May 16, '90_.

"DEAREST ISA,--I had this ('this' was 'Sylvie and Bruno') bound for
you when the book first came out, and it's been waiting here ever
since Dec. 17, for I really didn't dare to send it across the
Atlantic--the whales are so inconsiderate. They'd have been sure to
want to borrow it to show to the little whales, quite forgetting that
the salt water would be sure to spoil it.

"Also, I've only been waiting for you to get back to send Emsie the
'Nursery Alice.' I give it to the youngest in a family generally; but
I've given one to Maggie as well, because she travels about so much,
and I thought she would like to have one to take with her. I hope
Nellie's eyes won't get _quite_ green with jealousy, at two (indeed
_three_!) of her sisters getting presents, and nothing for her! I've
nothing but my love to send her to-day: but she shall have _something
some_ day.--Ever your loving

"UNCLE CHARLES."

Socially, Lewis Carroll was of strong conservative tendencies. He viewed with wonder and a little pain the absolute levelling tendencies of the last few years of his life. I have before me an extremely interesting letter which deals with social observances, and from which I am able to make one or two extracts. The bulk of the letter is of a private nature.

"Ladies have 'to be _much_' more particular than gentlemen in
observing the distinctions of what is called 'social position': and
the _lower_ their own position is (in the scale of 'lady' ship), the
more jealous they seem to be in guarding it.... I've met with just the
same thing myself from people several degrees above me. Not long ago I
was staying in a house along with a young lady (about twenty years
old, I should think) with a title of her own, as she was an earl's
daughter. I happened to sit next her at dinner, and every time I
spoke to her, she looked at me more as if she was looking down on me
from about a mile up in the air, and as if she were saying to herself
'How _dare_ you speak to _me_! Why, you're not good enough to black my
shoes!' It was so unpleasant, that, next day at luncheon, I got as far
off her as I could!

"Of course we are all _quite_ equal in God's sight, but we _do_ make a
lot of distinctions (some of them quite unmeaning) among ourselves!"

The picture that this letter gives of the famous writer and learned mathematician obviously rather in terror of some pert young lady fresh from the schoolroom is not without its comic side. One cannot help imagining that the girl must have been very young indeed, for if he were alive to-day there are few ladies of any state who would not feel honoured by the presence of Charles Dodgson.